


Red is your favorite color

by mazily



Category: China Beach
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-02
Updated: 2010-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 10:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/pseuds/mazily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are two seasons: the one where it rains water and the one where it rains blood"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red is your favorite color

**Author's Note:**

> A war story, includes: death, drinking, depression, denial.

There are two seasons: the one where it rains water and the one where it rains blood. Rimshot. Bah-dum-dun. The bodies don't stop coming, and you sleep in seconds instead of hours.

"McMurphy," Richard says.

You roll over. Pull the pillow over your head. Say, "no."

"McMurphy," he says, almost in sing-song. He shakes the cot. Pulls away your blanket.

"Die," you say.

"Now now," he says, "We both know you don't mean that."

You sit up. Your neck hurts, and you roll your shoulders. "Of course not," you say.

"I'm too charming," he says. You throw your pillow at his face, and it bounces to the floor.

"Ah ah ah," he says. He waggles his fingers like Sr. Mary Catherine, and the visual of Richard in a scapular and veil is too much. You laugh, and you're not sure you'll ever be able to stop.

"I'm up," you say. You sit up, cross-legged and sore.

"Incoming," he says. He hands your pillow back to you. "And then later tonight we're going to have a little chat about the human body's regretful inability to survive on less than an hour sleep per week."

"Yes, mom," you say. He glares. Stomps away. You laugh even harder.

*

(A shout: "Wounded, incoming!" You're off and running before you can stand up.)

*

There's a stripe of red on the back of your neck, and the blood under your fingernails is starting to fade. Another day of enforced R&amp;R--"I wouldn't need to keep ordering it if you'd just accept that you're actually one of we mere mortals," Richard said, "and you know how it pains a doctor to admit he's human"--and you might just follow Dodger out into the jungle.

Sudden cold sparks on your neck, and you shriek. Jump. Spill your drink all over your shirt.

"Boo," Boonie says.

"Fuck off," you say. "You owe me a drink. And a shirt."

"One more for the lady," Boonie says. You glare at him, and he holds up two fingers. "Make that two," he adds, and he pulls his shirt up and over his head. Tosses it over.

You pull your shirt up to a cacophony of wolf whistles. "I'm wearing a bathing suit," you shout. You hang your shirt on Boonie's shoulder and put his shirt on. It smells like salt and sweat. Like the sea and blood.

"You're welcome," Boonie says.

Your drinks are on the bar in front of you. You finish off the first in one long swallow, enjoying the burn. "Thanks," you say. You hold up the empty. Tilt it in his direction.

*

(You dream of: a storm, blades, a dark red sea. You wake up in a cold sweat.)

*

The floor tilts, like riding in a helicopter with your feet still on the ground. You half expect to look down and see trees, water, instead of endless red dirt. You trip--there's something on the path in front of you, even if you can't see it--and catch yourself before you actually fall.

"Woah," KC says. You'd almost forgotten she was there. "You're really--how much did you actually drink tonight?"

You shrug. "Dunno," you say. "Not enough. Not nearly enough."

"Translation," she says, "Way too much." She wraps an arm around your waist. You want to push her away, shake her off, but you don't. You can barely make out the sound of Frankie singing back at the Jet Set; the crash of the water against the shore is threatening to drown out the music.

It's a beautiful night. You don't trust it.

You inhale. Everything smells like salt and copper. "I'm not drunk," you say. You touch your right finger to your nose, then repeat the action with the left. "See? Completely sober. Depressingly sober."

K.C. laughs, and you can feel it along your side. You glance over at her out of the corner of your eyes. She looking at you like you're a possible business transaction. "Completely sober," she says, and she doesn't sound like she believes you.

"Deadly," you say. You open your mouth to say more, to tell her to pass the bottle you know she's hiding somewhere. But she's leaning toward you, and her breath smells only slightly of alcohol.

She kisses you. She's good at this--a pro, even, which must be why you kiss her back; you open your mouth, and her tongue brushes against yours--and you're pretty sure you make an embarrassingly moan-like sound.

She pulls away; you tilt forward, back again. K.C. walks toward the water. "Don't worry," she says, "I believe you." She pulls a bottle from her bag and tosses it in your direction. You reach out. Grab it. Reflex.

Warm local brew. You open it and bring it up to your mouth. It'll do.

*

(A siren, incoming mortar fire, and you pull on a shirt, pants, and head for the shelter.)

*

A boy drowns in his own blood, and you tell him good night before sending him off to Beckett. He was Catholic, too; whispering _"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti"_ during his few moments of consciousness. He never called you an angel.

You shake your head. Head over to the next bed, the next dying boy.

"Hey," he says. He lifts his head off the pillow and laughs; the sound rattles around in his chest. "So when do I get to spend time at that beach I keep hearing about?"

"Well, first you have to pass the swim test," you tell him. "Next one's not until next Wednesday."

He drops his head back down. "I'll be there," he says. He's missing an arm. His left leg is fractured in multiple places, and his lungs sound like he swallowed half a swamp. He's maybe nineteen. Maybe. You smile and pat his good arm.

Richard finally wanders over, and you pass him the chart. He looks it over, humming under his breath, and scribbles something down. "Never you fear," he tells the kid, "Doctor Richard is here. I may not be a god, but I play one on TV. You golf?"

The pilot two beds over is trying not to cry. You glance over, decide he probably doesn't want you to see him like that. Richard's checking the kid's lungs. "Don't worry, buddy," you say, "You're in good hands. Doc here's pretty full of himself, but--and don't tell him I said this--that's because he really is that good."

"John," he says, "That's my." Now you'll always know his name.

*

(Sunlight streams in through the stained glass, and you can't remember the rosary.)

*

Red hands, red feet. Air thick enough to swim in. Boonie and Holly are talking about throwing a party. A couple of guys are tossing around a football. Your shirt's splattered with blood, and a strand of hair keeps falling in front of your eye. Just another Tuesday at the Five-and-Dime. Or maybe it's Friday.

"McMurphy!" K.C. shouts. She's wearing something red and tight. Her hair's up.

"Ignore it," you say. You pick up your pace.

She keeps up, faster than she should be in those shoes. You break into a light jog. There's a shower with your name on it; you can practically feel the water running through your hair. The soap on your skin. You step into your quarters, grab a towel and your toiletries.

"Colleen," K.C. says, suddenly standing in front of you. She's blocking the door. You step to the right, trying pass under her outstretched arm, but she counters.

"Don't," you say. You hold up your hand. It barely shakes.

She smiles almost pityingly—you don't slap her; you really want to smack her—and holds out the bottle. "Cmon," she says. "My place. Bath, bourbon, and another B-word I can't think of right now. Boonie? I'm sure he'd be more than happy to--"

"Bourbon first," you say.

Her smile turns real. "Deal," she says.

*

(The choppers arrive two minutes later. The rotos like sirens.)


End file.
